There are very few things in this world that compliment a cloudy night like a pencil skirt and black heels. With a sharp clack with every step, the heels walked down the cement sidewalk as a sheep does, alone in the woods. Her head twisted from side to side, searching for something familiar, something that wasn’t so confusing. He, from high atop the adjacent building looking upon the lost lamb in heels sighed softly, as a lover might, curling finally into a growl. A tongue darted out, wetting lips that were never dry, never less than perfect; tonight was going to be a good night.
The air had a sort of ominous feel to it, the breeze smelling of ash and old wood, smiled on by a brightly lit moon. It was one of those scenes than poets and writers dream about as they scribble about in their notebooks. The predator dropped from the roof with a whisper, landing just before the unfortunate young lady. He stepped from the shadowed alley, his grin was a swirl of lust and violence.
Ah, but up close he was forced into a stunned double-take the instant he laid eyes on her face for she was not the lovely victim he had seen or thought he’d seen (how lazy of him) from above. For, yes, she was a gem indeed, but of a totally unforeseen breed. There was two of her there in the same single space, shifting into and out of existence alternately, just like a holographic sticker.
One image flicked in the moonlight, the other danced, perfectly still. Eyes like emeralds stayed the same, but she, they, never lasted more than a moment. He stood there entranced in those green whirlpools that sucked him deeper, and deeper into the abyss. His breath escaped as a sigh, long and orgasmic, he never saw the stake, only felt its gentle embrace. Their eyes never left his, not even as the blood from his veins poured over the ashwood. “Pax cum vobis,” whispered one, “Peace be with you,” the other.